Kinkmeme Collection
by Besosybrazos
Summary: Various fills for the BTR kinkmeme. Kinks included: fisting, pegging, and bloodplay. Pairings: James/Carlos, Logan/Carlos, Jennifer/Carlos/Jennifer. Pure, unadulterated porn.
1. Your Blood is My Drug

**So, I was just sitting in my dorm room at like one in the morning, writing BTR porn, you know, normal stuff, when I realized that I'd never put the majority of my kinkmeme fills on here. Which is like, a travesty, considering I have thousands and thousands of words of BTR porn sitting on my hardrive and livejournal. **

**Warnings for this fill: Bloodplay  
Pairing: Carlos/Logan  
Rating:PG-13**

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For as far back as Logan can remember, Carlos has always had an unusual penchant for dangerous activities. Carlos is the kind of guy who runs into walls and throws himself into wells, tries to jump things that the laws of physics clearly state cannot be jumped. That's simply the kind of guy Carlos is, it's what makes him _Carlos_; loveable, stupid, ridiculous Carlos.

"Oh shit!" There is a loud crash from the living room, the shatter of glass. The sound itself is distinctly Carlos, at least, distinct in the sense that it is a noise that often follows one of Carlos' master plans. He pauses mid-line in his textbook, waiting for either the patter of Mrs. Knight's footsteps as she runs out to check on Carlos or for Carlos to burst out laughing. There is only silence. There is never silence in the apartment, not when he's trying to study for a test.

He saves his place in his book with his blue highlighter, sticks his head out into the hallway.

"Carlos?" He doesn't get an answer, not a single peep. _Shit_. "Carlos what the hell did you do?" Carlos is sitting on the floor, his back to Logan, and around him there are dozens of shards of glass, crumbled on the ground like translucent snowflakes faintly pink with blood. "Carlos!"

"Dude." Carlos says softly, an exhalation of breath, eyes round and wide with awe. Carlos has crashed through the glass dome of the air hockey game and clutched in his palm is an impressive chunk of glass eight inches long. It's nearly an inch thick and the first five inches of it are smeared red and wet with blood. "That was in me." With that, Carlos promptly falls backwards, his helmet making a thunk as it collides with the floor.

True enough, the glass really was in Carlos, Logan can see the rapidly expanding line of red blossoming from his chest up near his shoulder, close to the bottom of his collarbone. The wound looks bad and Carlos of course pulled it out when everyone else in the world knows that you are supposed to leave things randomly impaled inside you _in_.

Mrs. Knight keeps a first aid kit under the sinks in the kitchen and the bathroom. Her motto is that you can never have enough first aid supplies with four teenage boys in the same apartment, especially when one of the boys is Carlos. He removes a pad of gauze, prepared to apply pressure like he'll learn in medical school someday if this whole rock star thing doesn't work out.

Carlos opens his eyes and blinks up at him, slow and lazy, the flush of excitement draining from his cheeks, leaving him pale beneath his natural tan. He looks helpless, utterly vulnerable, and for some reason the sad, pained expression on Carlos' face has heat rushing to Logan's belly, goose bumps rising on his skin. Carlos is _bleeding_ and he needs to dress the wound, stop staring and mop up the blood.

"I'll have you patched up in a minute." He places a hand on Carlos' forehead briefly to reassure him, then cuts the front of his shirt away with the small, blue medical scissors.

The cut is worse than he anticipated it would be. The glass was in Carlos pretty deep and the flesh is torn from when Carlos yanked it out. Blood seeps up from wound like bubbles to the surface of hot water, rising steadily with the even increase in heat, one continuous flow. He wipes the area around it to get a better look at the severity of the injury but the blood he cleans is replaced in less than a minute, Carlos' left side painted a pretty crimson. Logan feels like a sick, twisted human being for watching rather than helping, for yearning to slide his fingers across the slickness of Carlos' blood warmed skin. He wants to be a doctor for God's sake; this is a completely inappropriate reaction. He's never going to make it through three years of medical school.

Carlos' eyes roll white into the back of his head, his mouth open, barely half conscious, knocked out from the shock of it all more so than the actual blood loss. "You're gonna be fine." Carlos' blood is spread out over his fingers and they are a lovely, dark cherry color up to the knuckles. He leans forward, careful not to disturb Carlos further, and in a rushing moment of spontaneity none of his friends would ever believe if he for some reason decided to tell them, he touches the very tip of his tongue to the bottom of the cut.

The blood is hot and he tastes the bitter tang of salt and iron. It's not an entirely unpleasant flavor, somewhat similar to sucking on a penny warmed by the sun. He could get used to the taste, and he does, presses his tongue flat onto the surface of Carlos' skin and trails it up in one long lick. Carlos moves slightly beneath him, moaning in pain or arousal or confusion, maybe all three. "Hm." He hums, lapping up more blood, his nose resting against the blood free part of Carlos' chest. This is so fucked up, too good for words. He's probably a sick bastard for enjoying this as much as he is. He's definitely going to be a crappy and creepy doctor.

The blood flow starts to ebb a little as Carlos' wound begins to clot and he experimentally pushes his tongue over and_ into_ the cut to seek out more of the sour metallic taste. His tongue is thicker than the cut, however, and it doesn't fit in easily, takes a little wriggling for him to part the two section of flesh wide enough. Carlos makes a keening whine, shuddering, but he's still too out of it to do more than shift where he lies. Inside the cut Carlos is warmer and sweeter, raw and tender. He crouches there on the floor, his face wet with Carlos' blood, tongue inside a new, virgin part of him, and for the first time is acutely aware of the pressure in the front of his jeans. He never knew he was this kinky.

"Lo-Logan?" Carlos gropes blindly for him. "What're you doing?" His words are slurred, bleary, feather soft and butterfly quiet. Carlos is on the edge of consciousness again and Logan seizes the brief opportunity to kiss him, shove his tongue past Carlos' lips this time, taste a different kind of sweet. Carlos drifts out a few seconds into the kiss but Logan continues to wreck his mouth to his liking and when he's out of breath and forced to break the kiss, he finds that Carlos' lips and chin are messy red with his own blood.

Finally, at the risk of becoming a complete and total pervert, he gives Carlos one last lick and puts a square of gauze over the wound, calls Mrs. Knight so she can drive Carlos to the hospital to get him stitches.

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A few days later, when Carlos pops his stitches playing hockey, Logan holds his hand to Carlos' chest to stop the bleeding, and sucks the blood off his palm the second he's alone.


	2. Never Had You Pegged

**I won't lie, this is probably my favorite of my BTR porn fics. I really have a great, great love for pegging. Truly, truly great. For those of you who don't know what pegging is, well, you'll certainly understand once you read this, but I'll tell you to be nice. It's when a girl wears a strap on and well, I'm sure you can guess the rest. Either way, someone asked for the Jennifers pegging Carlos, and I could not say no.**

**Pairing:Carlos/Jennifer/Jennifer  
Rating:NC-17(pegging)**

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"I'm not too sure this thing with Carlos is going to work out." Jennifer says when they go together to use the bathroom, arching an eyebrow as she applies summer peach lip-gloss to her mouth.

"I think it's working out pretty well." Her lip-gloss doesn't need reapplying just yet. She settles for touching up the foundation on her nose, making it another layer thick. Heat waves like this are horrible on her makeup, have sweat bubbling up out of her pores. As often as she and the other Jennifers insist that sweating is beyond them, they're just _too_ cool for it, the laws of nature are impossible to defy.

"He doesn't feel like one of us, not exactly." She understands. Carlos has a big hole to fill, a Jennifer sized hole to fill. He and Jennifer aren't cut from the same material. Carlos is a polyester blend and Jennifer is pure Chinese silk. Carlos is no brand and Jennifer is Vera Wang, the two will never be on the same level, no matter how hot no brand, polyester blend Carlos can get.

"I know what you mean." Her hair could use a bit of an afternoon touch up, some extra volume to get her through the rest of the day. "Maybe he feels the same way. He needs to be welcomed." They've done a good job with Carlos so far. His horrible, tacky hockey helmet is gone, replaced with a much more in-style, fashionable fedora, a matching silk scarf. He needs a nice suit to complete the ensemble, possibly Armani, some fantastic designer jeans and a salmon pink long sleeved shirt to match. She and Jennifer are going to make Carlos so _hot_, much better than he used to be.

"Welcomed?" Jennifer grins, lips glossy and plump, kissable as the shade says they should be. Collagen has nothing on their mouths. "The Jennifer way?"

"Pft, duh." She runs fingers through her hair, curls still reasonably bouncy for weather like this, for nearly three o'clock. "Your new lip-gloss is cute, by the way."

"Thanks." Jennifer smacks her lips, tucks long, straightened strands of her dark hair behind her ears to draw attention to her cheekbones. "Want some?"

"You know it, bitch."

Jennifer's mouth spreads the gloss easily over her lips, perfectly even distribution, and when they break apart they are both kissably, deliciously full lipped and pink.

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"I thought we were going shopping. I saw some Gucci loafers that I could wear with anything, formal or casual." Carlos is impressing her more and more as the day goes by. He'll be a full fledged Jennifer sooner than she thought.

"Oh Carlos." She laughs, curling a finger into the collar of his shirt, mindful not to tug too hard. She'd hate to stretch out the fabric; they just bought the outfit for him. "Who goes shopping at nine thirty?"

"The Jennifers?" He says, throwing up his hands in an _I have no idea_ manner. He's really quite cute and were she willing to slum it with a boy for a day, he'd be one of her first choices, so long as no one ever found out.

"We're going to do something way more fun than shopping." Jennifer is wearing her black silk nightgown with lace trim at the hem. They all have matching ones in different colors. It might be a bit much, to sleep in such expensive pajamas, but they have a reputation to live up to, and you should dress like someone is watching every hour of the day.

"Like what? We're not going to have a sleepover are we? I don't think Mrs. Knight will let me have a sleepover with girls."

Jennifer slips out of her nightgown and it flutters to the floor in trembles of black silk that ripple smooth as water. Beneath her gown she has on her best lingerie, a black lace corset and matching thong panties. Lingerie has always been a good look on Jennifer.

"We're not going to sleep." She adds, dropping her cherry-red robe. Her own lingerie is simpler, a classic bra and underwear combination but she has red stockings that come up to her mid-thigh, red stilettos too. She would have worn her knee high red leather boots if she didn't think they would send Carlos running. "We're going to show you the perks of being a Jennifer."

Carlos squeaks, his eyes wide as circles, adorably, sexually innocent and cute.

"Okay."

"Take off your clothes."

Carlos does as he's told, drapes his scarf over the back of the sofa so he doesn't wrinkle it, does the same with his new shirt and pants, hangs his jacket on the hanger she gives him. He's not too bad beneath all the clothing, despite the fact that he always wears a shirt in the pool. His biceps are reasonably impressive, stomach flat, chest decently toned. He's not buff but they can work with him, glam him up. Body glitter could do him wonders.

"On the bed." Jennifer orders, her voice sexy and wicked, an extension of her inner diva out in the privacy of their bedroom. Carlos takes to the bed like he needs it, like he's going to keel over and die if he isn't on top of the comforter.

"To be honest with you guys, I'm pretty flattered by this. I never thought you guys liked me like that way." Carlos is beaming, arms crossed behind his head, gazing up at them cheerfully. He has no idea that he's in for a big surprise.

Carlos smile fades, however, when she steps from behind the foot of the bed. She understands, of course, it's a little intimidating at first, she felt the same the night she and the other Jennifers came across them. "What the fuck is that?" Carlos asks, sitting up, wriggling back until he's against the headboard, knees touching his chest.

"A strap-on, don't be an idiot." She's pretty proud of her cock now that she has it. It's her cock; definitely, just like her clothes are hers and her purse is hers. It's just another accessory really, one to be used in the bedroom rather than at the mall.

"I don't—" She doesn't mind that he's a little terrified, her dick is pretty otherworldly, fat and impressively thick, a deep, red silicon to match her lingerie. "Oh dear god." Jennifer has her strap-on out now too. The differences between their fake cocks are striking. Where she goes for girth, Jennifer goes for length. Jennifer's is charcoal black, a good eight and a half inches long, scarily ribbed at the tip. "I thought we were going to have a threesome." Carlos says helplessly, sweat beading at his temples, but he doesn't look as afraid anymore, and his face is flushing, blood slowly making its way to his one hundred percent silicon free dick.

"We are." She assures him, reaching her hand down to stroke her strap-on; pump it like she would if she were a man, if hers were made of throbbing, sensitive flesh. "But just because we're going to fuck doesn't mean you get to do the fucking."

"I think I'll pass." He doesn't mean it, she can tell because he's watching her hand glide over the smooth silicon, his pink tongue coming out to wet his lips.

"You don't mean that." Jennifer takes his face in her hands, kisses his cheeks, his nose, everywhere but his lips. They agreed on _Pretty Woman_ rules before they invited Carlos over. There is no kissing on the lips. "This is part of being a Jennifer, you don't get anywhere in life unless you're willing to take a cock or two and fight back with your own."

"Will it hurt?"

"No." Jennifer licks a line from his collarbone to the center of his chest. She watches Jennifer the entire time, the movement of her wet, wriggling tongue.

"Here." She uncaps the lube, drizzles some over her palm, tosses the rest of the bottle to Carlos. "Get yourself ready." She's not going to put her fingers in _there_, she'd tear him up if she did, not to mention ruin her French tips. She just had a mani-pedi the day before.

Carlos whimpers, coats his hand good and slick, reaches back where she can't see and pushes a finger into himself. The muscles in his stomach jump at the first intrusion even though he's the one controlling it, thigh muscles firm and solid as he gets himself onto his knees, head thrown back as he works. He starts to like it, pretty quickly, actually, and soon his dick is flush against his belly.

"Mhm." She purrs, forcing his head down so he can see her take Jennifer's cheeks between her palms, kiss her on the mouth. Jennifer tastes of her nighttime apricot lip-gloss, strawberries and cream, saliva sour from their after dinner ice cream. Jennifer's breasts fit just above hers, like they always do, and she touches them through the corset. She'd love for Jennifer to be naked but that's not something to do right now, that's too intimate, that's something _only_ the Jennifers can do, a girls only rule. Show a boy your tits and he's in love with you forever, they don't want or need that to happen. "Just like that Carlos."

Carlos' skin glistens with sweat, his knees spread apart slutty and eager, fingers working vigorously inside him. He's getting really into it and the sight has a warm pool of arousal building inside her, down between her legs, shivery and achy with need.

"On your stomach." Jennifer is the first one on the bed, helps Carlos roll over, wedges his thighs wide with her hands to her liking, so she can get to work. Carlos groans when Jennifer thrusts her way into him, surprisingly gentle, more gentle than she's ever seen Jennifer be. Carlos_ loves_ it, pushes back with all his weight. "God." Jennifer growls, placing a hand on Carlos' back to keep him steady, give her leverage as she starts to thrust like she means it, good and hard. "I knew you'd love this, we both did. You're such an obvious little cock slut. I bet you think about this all the time. You love dick. Do you wish one of your friends would do this to you? Huh? Wish James or Kendall would get in here and fuck your ass raw?" Jennifer pounds away at him for a few minutes and Carlos makes noises like he's dying, low in his throat, mouth open wide, fingers clutching the duvet. He's close, they can both see it, and she stops Jennifer because she wants to be the one to finish him off.

She's wetter than she's ever been in her life, more turned on than she thought she could be. Carlos is greedy for everything she gives him and for the first time she wishes she did have a cock. She wants to know what Carlos feels like inside, when he shifts and clenches tight around her fake dick. She wants to feel how desperate she makes him and she can't, feels nothing but her own delicious agony, hot as a sun inside, yearning and untouched. Her strap-on stretches Carlos tight, brings him close, catches his pleasure button. Carlos comes like a geyser, all at once, no warning, sudden and fast, messy and complete. She wonders how he can be okay with an orgasm like that, one that doesn't get him high on waves and waves, can't go on and on and _on_, one time and he's done for awhile.

"That was—" Carlos doesn't know what to call it, slumps over boneless and relaxed. "Can I do anything for you two?"

"No thanks." She'd take him up on his offer, she's desperate enough, but Jennifer is there, nudging between her thighs, not her strap-on but her tongue, and that's all she'll ever need.


	3. Fist Me Once, Shame On You

**FISTING. Fisting. That is all I have to say, James/Carlos and there is fisting. I love love love love fisting. I don't know why, but fisting is grand and glorious and I blame Supernatural for giving me the kink.**

**Pairing:James/Carlos  
Rating:NC-17**

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Hockey is probably the most awesome thing ever. Carlos has never been asked to make a list of the most awesome things ever, but if he was, hockey would totally rank in the top five, along with ice cream and puppies and swirly slides. Yeah. If someone could combine hockey and slides and puppies and ice cream together he'd die, spontaneously combust from happiness, just full on explode like cartoon characters on TV. Though, he's not sure how well ice cream and puppies would go together, 'cause puppies would probably eat the ice cream and then get sick or get hair in it, or worse, the puppies would be made of ice cream and then he'd never be able to eat them. But, he's giving the issue more thought than he should, and he's too tired to waste energy on imaginary ice cream puppies.

"I think I'm dead." He announces to the world, face buried in one of the couch cushions. He hurts everywhere, in places he didn't know it was possible to hurt. Their game was _amazing_, the dudes from 90210 really have some skills.

"You aren't dead." James nudges him with his foot.

"No, I'm dead."

"You're talking." James shakes him this time, tugs him up by the back of his jersey.

"I'm a zombie, rawr. I'm going to eat your brain." He launches himself weakly at James, slobbers and chews on his neck. James' neck tastes like sweat, salty and greasy. He doesn't enjoy the taste; it's too bad James isn't made of ice cream. He'd eat that shit up right now.

"My brains are in my head, idiot." James grins, laughing, shoving him away.

"Meh." He clings to James, too tired to walk on his own. He's seen on Discovery Channel that monkeys carry their sleeping babies on their backs. He can be a baby monkey, easy. "Carry me to bed."

"Dude, you reek. I'm not carrying you anywhere but the shower." He adjusts his position, shimmies around so he's firmly on James' back, loops an arm around James' neck, whacks him on the ass with his palm.

"To the bathroom! Away!" James is a terrible horse; he doesn't even whinny or gallop. Carlos' papá always made a convincing horse when he gave him rides.

It's weird being carried like this by his best friend. Their cheeks are ridiculously close together and the heat of James' back is pleasantly warm through Carlos' shirt. He could get used to this kind of thing and if he and James didn't both smell so funky it'd be sort of nice.

"There." James drops him rudely onto the bathroom floor, luckily his ninja reflexes allow him to land on his feet. "Now get in the shower and don't drown."

"I didn't drown in the shower." It was a bathtub, not a shower, and he was like three, plus it was Kendall's fault for adding more water to the tub when his mom left the room to get them toys to play with. "You were there." They used to take baths together all the time when they were little, usually because they would get dirty together too and their parents decided to save water by dumping them in the tub at once.

It takes him forever to untie his shoelaces, unzip his pants, pull them down. His bones feel tired and heavy, like they're drooping, wilted as his first grade lima bean plant he left in the summer sun and forgot to water.

"Oh my God, you are so slow." James removes his shirt for him, unbuckles his helmet and tosses it away. "Get in the shower." James strips off his own shirt too, steps out of his pants. This is strange, not a bad strange, just strange. They've showered together tons of times, only it was always in the locker room, never in their own house. It's pretty gay, but he and James are pretty gay sometimes, like the times when they had to kiss playing Spin the Bottle or the night of their party when they'd sort of _slipped_ on the dance floor and then slipped on purpose later when they went to bed.

"You're so mean to me." He knows better than to touch James' special shampoo and conditioner. He picks the regular bottle, the one he and the rest of the guys use. Mrs. Knight has bought them a new shampoo and he pops the cap, smelling mint. The shampoo is a scary, goopy green, the color of boogers and limes.

"You love it." James bumps into him as he slides the curtain open and his elbow jostles Carlos' hand hard enough to send the bottle of shampoo to the floor. He makes a dramatic dive for it, flailing, wishing he could watch the entire thing in slow motion (because it probably looks really cool) and fails. The bottle lands on the tile and half of it gushes out in only a few seconds. "Dammit."

"Hey, you bumped me, that wasn't my fault." It totally wasn't, his hand hurts from James' elbow, he has _proof_, he'll take pictures of the future bruise and everything.

The floor is slippery, _really_ slippery. James bends down to wipe up the shampoo with a towel and Carlos curls a hand in James' hair to steady himself. He can't afford to fall right now; he's not wearing his helmet. He could hurt himself. "Ah." His legs tremble, they're so exhausted, and down he and James go. In retrospect, he should probably grab hold of things for balance that aren't going to fall if he does, something sturdier than James for sure.

"Um." James' face is bright red, red as the skin of a tomato, a strawberry ice pop, Carlos' favorite color crayon.

They've landed in an unusual position. James' bare ass is flat on the floor, getting all slippery and sticky with mint scented soap, and Carlos' bare ass is on top of, well, almost on top of James' dick. He's straddling him, thighs tight around James' waist, tensed against impending impact with the tiles. If it weren't for the fact that James had instinctively put a hand out to protect his junk, Carlos would be squishing his cock or worse. Come to think of it, though, it wouldn't really be _worse_, because a lot of people seem to like that and maybe he could too. He'll try anything once.

"Fancy meeting you here." He says, imitating the porno Kendall managed to score off one of the guys who worked at the record company. He isn't a girl, obviously, and James isn't a sexy, ripped Latino janitor with long flowing hair, but he likes their version better.

James looks at him and he smiles because it's okay, he doesn't mind, and then one of James' fingers, slick and cold from spilled shampoo, slips into him, through no fault of James' own. Carlos has all his weight on his friend, on his hand, so it makes sense that his shifting around would cause some slippage. He's not quite sure if he likes this, it's very intrusive, like the time the doctor shoved a thermometer up his butt. He'd rather get up and take his shower, maybe kiss a little, get to second base, third if he can manage to stay awake long enough. He's not ready to go all the way; James hasn't even bought him dinner yet. He learned from his brief stint as a Jennifer that only real sluts sleep with a guy before he pays for a meal or two. "Nggh." James has like three fingers in him now, stretching him open and it burns. The extra two fingers aren't an accident. "No." His voice is a high pitched whine, not very convincing.

He tries to stand up, but the floor is slippery as unpolished ice and James puts his free hand on his thigh to push him down further and _madre de díos_, he's stuffed too full too fast. He feels like his poor culo is going to split at the seams. This is going too quick for him to properly adjust, he's too tight inside, never had anything inside him before. "James, cut it out."

"I'm more than halfway in, you'll like it, I promise." James isn't even close to halfway in; his dick isn't even near Carlos' asshole. As experienced as he may be James doesn't appear to be very good at this, or even know the logistics of gay sex.

Suddenly the bathroom goes white hot and blinding and Carlos' eyes try to roll back into his head as his eyelids snap closed reflexively. Holy _shit_, he gets what James is doing now, and his ass wants to cry. He's heard about this before, in the way that kids hear about the Chupacabra and Big Foot, more of a myth than a fact, something scary told late at night.

"This is impossible." He squeaks, really, really, impossibly full, stretched to his limits, five fingers are too many, too much, way bigger than a dick.

"Nah." James shushes him, kisses him on the mouth, licks along his bottom lip.

"Oh fuck." He clutches at James' bare shoulders, digs his fingers into the muscle, clinging for dear life. James can't really think this is going to work. Five fingers are one thing, but he still has the widest part of his fist to work in, and there's just no way. Carlos may have gotten a C in science class but he paid enough attention to know that a hand is too big to fit in someone's ass, especially his ass. He knows what can go inside his ass. James' fist is not one of those few things.

"Almost there." James isn't as encouraging as he thinks he is. Carlos can barely breathe, can't get enough traction with his feet to stand up and get this fist out of him.

"Dude, it _can't_ fit." James is going to see he's wrong and Carlos isn't going to walk for a week and it's going to suck for both of them.

Apparently, it really can. James curls his fingers in towards his palm and pushes his hand forward in a slow, steady motion, rubbing the bowstring tight muscles in his belly as they quiver, his ass efficiently stuffed full of fist.

"Told ya it could." He wants to hit James for being so smug when he is never going to be able to poop or sit or walk again.

"Now what?" He speaks in pants, growing accustomed to the feel and kind of enjoying it, as much as he can enjoy it, anyways.

"This." James moves his hand back, then forwards, in pulses of motion, unclenching and clenching his fist for fun, just to torture him. Carlos thinks he might be dying again and if he is, he wants to continue this awesomely weird death. James has his hand in him to the wrist, twists and pushes, strokes him from the inside out. James catches his thumb on something and _presses_, firm and deliberate, and then he's coming so hard he could go blind from losing too much semen, if that old wives tale holds true, and given the results of this whole fisting thing, it probably will.

"Jesus Christ." James works his hand out gently, nuzzles his face into the curve of Carlos' throat.

"Get up."

"What, why?" He couldn't get up if he wanted to and he doesn't want to. He wants to stay on the floor with James, scoot closer to the warmth of his skin.

"I'm hoping this time you'll fall on my dick."


	4. Make a Man out of You

**I'm not sure how kinky this is. I mean, it has riding, and I do love riding, but aside from that it's pretty tame. I just thought the prompt sounded cute and cracky.**

**Prompt was: James really wants to take a nap but Carlos won't stop singing 'Be a Man' from Mulan. Watching Carlos dance around gets James horny but he's tired and he wants to fuck slow. Carlos doesn't. So Carlos gets really into the song and rides James like a proper vaquero.**

**James/Carlos**

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James just wants to take a nap.

It becomes very obvious, however, that he's not going to get what he wants, possibly ever. He was almost asleep, blissfully unaware of the world, when Carlos burst in, singing at the top of his lungs, his iPod ear buds in. Carlos had effectively ruined any chance of sleep, so now he's lying on his bed, face buried in his pillow, while Carlos listens to _Be a Man_ on repeat.

If Carlos was only singing it wouldn't be such a problem. James is used to sleeping with background noise, he can handle that, hell, music helps him sleep at night. What makes this particularly horrible is that Carlos isn't just singing, he's dancing too, choreographing his own routine to the song, and getting really, really, disturbingly into it. Carlos has his helmet buckled, fastened securely under his chin, and he's trying out several different moves as the stanzas change.

"_How could I, make a man, out of you?"_ Carlos belts, twirling his hockey stick like a bow staff. It's an accident waiting to happen, that does, in fact, happen, as Carlos fails to catch it after he tosses it up into the air and it smacks him in the face. Rubbing his nose, Carlos chucks the stick aside, changing his facial expression to match the implied tones of the lyrics. He's angry, he's condescending, he's confidant, switching back and forth, exaggerating everything, kicking and spinning in a sad imitation of kung fu. He falls twice, trips over the edge of his bed once, accidentally kicks so hard his shoe flies off and hits James in the hip. It's ridiculous and Carlos looks ridiculous and somehow he can't help but watch. Carlos is keeping him awake with his little one man show; he might as well have an audience.

The song starts over and Carlos strips off his shirt, purses his lips as he goes into 'serious' mode. He's exhausted as ever but he likes watching Carlos tumble around half naked, pantomiming every action described in the song. It's kind of cute to watch him pretend to swim or try to act like a raging fire. Carlos is definitely motivated, he'll give him that. There are few renditions of _Be a Man_ that are this entertaining.

Sure enough, he starts to _really_ like watching Carlos dance around without his shirt on, getting worked up and sweaty, flustered each time he tries something new and fails at it. If he had the energy he'd get up and do something about it himself, grab Carlos by the straps of his helmet and tug him onto the bed, _make_ him shut up and let James sleep. He knows from personal experience that if he fucks Carlos hard enough he'll fall asleep and if Carlos is asleep, then that means the room will be quiet, and James can finally nap.

"Carlos, come here." Carlos doesn't hear him and he's too distracted spreading his hands out, away from his chest in an attempt to demonstrate his fire within. "Carlos!"

"Hm?" Carlos won't talk; he's too busy singing, so he hums a little questioning sound when the instrumentals of the song flare up.

"Take your pants off and get over here." Carlos hears him and even if he doesn't, James is kicking his jeans away, and that's enough of a clue. "I'm tired of watching you flaunt your ass around."

Carlos stares at him for a moment, utterly still, no longer singing, and he looks from his iPod to James, back and forth, over and over, like he's trying to make a decision. He is trying to choose, James realizes in horror, Carlos can't decide if he'd rather fuck or go on dancing. After almost a full two minutes, Carlos rips his ear buds out, pulls down his jeans and boxers, and darts over to his bed to put his iPod down. James scoots up further on the bed, smugly pleased, and wants to cry when instead of setting the iPod down; Carlos plugs it into the speakers, _Be a Man_ flooding the room. "Dude, no."

"Please." Carlos says, making his eyes huge, round and wide and begging. He can't say no to that face, especially not when they're both naked. He'll sacrifice some ambiance if it means he can still get laid.

"Just get over here." Carlos beams, starts the song over from the beginning, and runs to James' side of the room, hops onto the foot of the bed.

Carlos starts to crawl to him and he deludes himself into thinking this is going to work out okay. About ten seconds in, Carlos makes it abundantly clear that this is _not _going to be okay. Carlos crawls to him, low on the bed, trying to be sultry, mouthing the lyrics so passionately and intensely, with such seriousness James doesn't know whether to laugh or look away. His dick would probably be more interested if he looked away, because the sight isn't pretty or sexy or anything other than weird. "Stop it." His warning would be more effective if he wasn't already half hard.

The beginning sequence of the song starts up again, drums steady and soft. Carlos gets to him and he's obviously planned this out, because the words begin and Carlos stands on his knees and, puffing out his chest, trying to appear intimidating and in charge, he sings _let's get down to business_. He wants to tell Carlos no, that the deal is off, he can go dance for Kendall or Logan, except they're naked and he's hard and he's not going to pass up the opportunity to fuck at three in the afternoon.

"_Did they send me daughters, when I asked for sons_?" Carlos flutters his eyelashes, does his best to feign being a girl. Carlos is a shitty actor; it's a good thing he can dance and sing.

"Oh my god, shut _up_." He grabs Carlos' wrist and pulls him forward, gets the lube and slicks up his fingers, narrowing his eyes to show that he is not pleased, not in the slightest.

"_Once you find your center, you are sure, to wiiiiinnn_." Carlos' voice breaks when James slips a finger in, his free hand on Carlos' hip, holding him steady. Carlos moves around too much, still dancing, wriggling in a way that has nothing to do with pleasure. Frankly he's sort of offended. "_I'm never gonna catch my breath_." Carlos mimics the character's voice, rocking a little on his knees that are on either side of James' hips.

He succeeds in getting Carlos to stop dancing the instant he finds his prostate. Carlos shudders, lyrics dying in his throat, and presses down with all his weight, beads of sweat trickling down from his collarbone, gleaming bright in the afternoon sun.

He works Carlos open slowly, because he's tired, because Carlos' singing is distracting, because he'd almost rather be napping, almost. He's perfectly content where he is, three fingers deep in Carlos, making him tremble and twist, entire lines of the song dissolving into moans. It's good, it's great, it's really fucking hot, and he's ready to tell Carlos to roll over and hope pounding his face into the mattress will get him to stop singing.

"Assume the position." He says, stroking the soft skin on the inside of Carlos' thighs.

Carlos shakes his head, pushes James lightly until he's flat on his back, staring up as _Be a Man_ begins yet again.

"_Mister, I'll_—" Carlos sinks down, a lightning quick snap, sudden weight and heat on James' dick. Carlos looks surprised for a second, like he can't believe what he's done, and honestly James can't either. Carlos has never done this before, not that James hasn't thought about it, not that he hasn't wanted to lie back and let Carlos do all the work, watch the muscles in his thighs quiver as he works himself up and down, the prettiest cowboy California or Minnesota has ever seen.

Carlos points at him, squeezes his inner muscles, experimenting, adjusting to the difference in being on top, his cheeks flushed pink from the heat. "_Make a man, out of you_." Clichéd lines aside, he's not going to mind Carlos making a man out of him if he keeps doing what he's doing.

Carlos starts slow, obviously trying to figure out the logistics of the thing, trying to see what feels good and what doesn't. He settles for putting most of his weight on his knees and leaning forward a bit, a hand on James' chest for balance, right over his heart. He just kind of bounces at first, shallow movements and James notices, more horrified than ever, that he's doing it to the drumbeat of the song. It shouldn't work, but it does, but just barely. He focuses on the clinging heat, the way Carlos' rhythm falters when he moves a certain way, the breathy pants Carlos lets out in-between groaning along with the lyrics. "_You're a spineless, pale, pathetic lot_." Carlos glances at James' chest as he sings the word pale, and fuck that, he used to be a kickass shade of mangerine, not pale at all.

"Can't you be quiet?" At this point it isn't going to make much of a difference. James is going to come regardless, pretty soon in fact, all he has to do is let Carlos, literally, ride it out.

Carlos answers by grinding down extra hard to the line _with all the strength of a raging fire_. "Fuck." He hisses and seriously, his dick hurts a little. That's not cool; he and Carlos are going to have to talk about that.

"_Heed my every order, and you might, survive_." Carlos is way too into this for it to be normal.

The crescendo of the song builds, the music at its loudest, Carlos' voice barely functional, too fucked out and used out and strained. "_Mysterious as_—" Carlos removes his hand from James' chest, he's perfected his technique enough that he can move using just his thighs, and extends his hands in his best kung-fu pose, hands flat, fingers together like he's making paper in a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. "_the dark side of the mooooooooon_."

It should bother him more that Carlos comes then, messy and thick, losing his ability to sing completely, sitting flush on James' lap, speared so full of dick he can't move. It's best that he can't move, though, 'cause if he did that would be a tragedy, and it only takes James one or two small thrusts up to finish.

"I don't think I can look at you anymore." He closes his eyes and moves his hands to Carlos' waist, touches him gently, his fingers sliding where they're both sweat and come slick. "That is burned into my brain, dude."

"You liked it." Carlos croaks and _God_, James can't believe he didn't see that Carlos had his helmet on the entire time too. Carlos sounds fucked out and exhausted and it's sort of turning him on.

The battery of Carlos' iPod runs out suddenly and the room is blessedly quiet.

"Sure." He rolls Carlos off him, onto the bed, and waits while Carlos unbuckles his helmet and sets it on the nightstand. "I'm going to sleep now, you can join me if you want, but either way, I am taking my goddamn nap."

Carlos snuggles up against him, like James knew he would, and James is almost asleep when Carlos sings, whisper silent.

"_Tranquil as a forest_—".

James sighs, rests his chin on the top of Carlos' head and chimes in.

"_But on fire within_."


	5. Afeitado

**A little ficlet I wrote for the BTR kinkmeme at the pleading of a friend. It isn't very kinky, to be perfectly honest. It's actually just really fluffy and sweet. I'm disappointed in myself. James shaves Carlos' legs.**

* * *

James is lying flat on his belly and Carlos has his cheek pressed against James' bare back, between his shoulder blades, that place just below where James' neck meets his spine. Carlos' breath flutters delicately over his skin, like a spider's tickling, tiny legs.

"What do you miss about girls?" Carlos asks, quietly, and the exhalations from his mouth are sudden and warm.

"I don't know." Maybe he should feel awkward talking about it, but he girls and Carlos likes girls, and they'll both probably like girls for the rest of their lives, no matter how much they might like each other more. It's a harmless question, really. Girls have long hair he can curl his fingers into and breasts he can cup in his hands, gorgeous curves and flat, soft bellies. James misses that, on occasion, but Carlos has some of those things too. James can appreciate both sexes. He likes broad shoulders and narrow waists, firm asses and muscular chests. He's not the type to get too picky. "What about you?"

"The way they smell," Carlos answers, without hesitation. Yeah. James has always liked that too.

"Legs." He decides, finally. "The way they feel, all smooth and stuff. That was my favorite part, running my hands up and down their legs."

Carlos is silent. At first, James thinks he's fallen asleep, but then Carlos says

"So it bothered you, then, earlier, I mean."

James thinks about it. He'd been too pay attention in the moment. There had been that brief instant when he'd slid Carlos' legs onto his shoulders and there had been hair, sure, because Carlos is a guy and guys have hair, but then Carlos was bent in half, flat on his back, making sharp, soft little noises, and James had forgotten all about it in favor of the clenching heat around his dick.

"No, not really. I noticed and stuff, but it's not a big deal."

Carlos hums, low in his throat, and the sound vibrates all along James' back.

* * *

It's Saturday night and the apartment is empty. Kendall and Jo are on a date, Logan and Camille are pretending they're not on a date, and Mrs. Knight and Katie are nowhere to be found. Carlos is somewhere in the apartment and James is thinking that they'll order a pizza and spend a few hours playing video games on the couch.

Carlos, apparently, has other ideas.

"What are you doing?" He finds Carlos sitting on the edge of the bathtub in his boxers, a razor in one hand and a can of shaving cream in the other, looking utterly and hopelessly lost.

"I was thinking about what you said the other night and I thought, maybe—" Carlos gestures at his bare legs. His bare, moderately hairy legs.

"Oh God," he says, because he loves Carlos so, so much sometimes, more than he can put into words.

Carlos stares at the razor he's clutching. James realizes this might be the first time Carlos has ever held one. They're all pretty young and they're not the hairiest of guys. James' dad had a mustache by the time he was fourteen, James is still working on cultivating an even layer of stubble. Carlos, meanwhile, is only fifteen; he couldn't grow facial hair even if he wanted to.

"Right." Carlos nods to himself but doesn't move.

"I could—" James starts, checking to make sure the bathroom door is closed and locked. "Help you out. You're a little clumsy, dude; you might cut yourself and bleed to death."

Carlos laughs a small, shallow laugh, like he's not quite sure if James is joking. James isn't sure he is, either.

"Okay." Carlos' eyes are round and wide. They look too huge for his face.

"Put your legs out." Carlos extends his right leg and rests his heel on the lid of the covered toilet seat. James lathers some of the shaving cream in his hands and slowly covers Carlos' entire shin down to the ankle. The foam is thick and white, almost creamy. Carlos gazes up at him, watching, and James has never heard him be so quiet or seen him sit so still.

He gently presses the razor to just below the dimple in Carlos' knee and then drags it down in a straight, solid line, careful to apply only a light amount of pressure. Carlos hisses, once, but it's from surprise rather than pain. James flicks the shaving cream off the razor and leans in to admire his work. Sure enough, the visible streak of Carlos' skin is smooth and hairless, velvet soft to the touch. "Huh," he says, grinning. "Look at that."

Carlos' face is open, trusting, and he doesn't jerk away, even when James nicks him while he tries to glide over the curve of Carlos' kneecap. James' free hand is resting on the top of Carlos' thigh, holding his leg steady, and he doesn't think he's ever done anything so intimate. To be so close to Carlos and to have him so vulnerable, it's exhilarating, in every sense of the word. They're connected, right then. He moves up Carlos' legs, to his thighs, and bunches Carlos' boxers up so they're out of the way. Carlos' thighs are strong, paler than the rest of him, pale like his ass and his bare feet, those few places that sun doesn't touch. The shaving cream smells bitter and the foam is starting to turn to liquid and drip off onto the bathroom floor. "There."

Carlos reaches for a towel and gently pats his legs dry.

"It kind of stings a little," he tells James, frowning.

"That's how it feels the first time, most times."

Carlos drops the towel and James doesn't know what to do with his fingers, his hands, his lips. Carlos' legs are perfectly hairless, caramel smooth, and they feel like warm silk. He wants to rub his face along them, like a mother rubs faces with her baby cheek to cheek.

"Okay?" Carlos tips his head up, mouth half open.

"Awesome."

James runs his hands along Carlos' thighs and kisses him.


End file.
